


Reparations

by jencat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/pseuds/jencat
Summary: The light is low for this late in the morning, and the bitter cold has the courtyard oddly deserted around them. It's the kind of day that promises more snow on the way, and Sansa understands down deep in her marrow that there is far worse to come, for all this Winter has been relatively kind so far.Sansa tries to be kind, too, but she's a little out of practice these daysSansa tries some damage limitation, in the aftermath





	Reparations

**Author's Note:**

> I... haven't done more than dip a toe in this ship fandom for years but apparently season eight is making my brain jump straight to writing shippy angst fic??  
> And I ~definitely~ have opinions on Sansa and Brienne having to talk about said angst, so here goes...

She finds Brienne almost as soon as she begins to look for her; not entirely sure, exactly, what she expects to find. Sansa had considered, for a moment, bidding her attend the library, but it seemed too formal, somehow, for this particular formality. So the courtyard it is, pulling her furs up even higher around her collar. There are few left at Winterfell to impress these days; no queens or wardens  - just herself, and the household and those she hosted here in her hospitality-- and Brienne of Tarth, still not quite _Ser_  in her head.

 

She stops a safe distance off; watches her work through a practice drill with all the usual precision, and Sansa wonders for a moment if perhaps she does not need to be here now, having this conversation, but the doubt never quite settles in.

 

 "Brienne?" 

 

Her sword hand stills at the sound of Sansa's voice. 

 

"My lady." Anyone listening would hear nothing wrong; no tremor, no hesitation. Brienne turns to face her and Sansa understands it for what it is. That faint hollow flatness of tone, the dullness in her eyes - all steady, but it all belies a very particular exhaustion of a night spent grieving until nothing else remains.  She remembers it sharply; how it would fold her back in on herself drained and dull the morning after, and steels herself against a sympathetic shudder.

 

The light is low for this late in the morning, and the bitter cold has the courtyard oddly deserted around them. It's the kind of day that promises more snow on the way, and Sansa understands down deep in her marrow that there is far worse to come, for all this Winter has been relatively kind so far.

 

Sansa tries to be kind, too, but she's a little out of practice these days, too long surrounded by too many people who do not value kindnesses; and even more who view it as a weakness. She has not had cause to ask after something like this since she was a girl, and those last times are not pleasant memories. All her days of wounded hearts for anyone who is not family -- not _here_ \-- are things of the poisonous South, and the Lannisters. It always vaguely surprises her she still has breath to waste on cursing the fucking Lannisters, after all this.

 

She keeps her voice low, and formal enough now. Best to get it over with, though it feels indelicate; less kind than she would prefer.  "I understand Ser Jaime has... taken leave of Winterfell, last night?"

 

She understands it because she's had a dozen household reports of his departure at her door this morning already, up to and including a third hand whisper of Brienne, left alone in robes amidst the snow and dark and cold, and she cannot let this pass, but she also has to admit to lacking options to turn for counsel right now. 

 

And it has been an odd time, watching the keep gradually empty of everyone bound for the Dragon Queen's war until it's really just her and Bran (when he is even Bran, which is not often). She had gathered all that was left of her family back home for a time, with Brienne's help, when none of them expected to survive it (and Theon _had not_ )-- and then they had spun loose again, back to that hateful net of Queens squabbling over King's Landing. She had not expected, back when this began, that Brienne's steady presence here should also mean she kept Jaime Lannister under the banner of Winterfell. Had not _wanted_ it particularly, but-- there is the part where Brienne's fealty had been one final gift of her lady mother's, and she would accept worse things than a Lannister guest as the price of that.

 

She has to ask because _someone_ has to ask. The Kingslayer of old abruptly quitting their hospitality at the prospect of the tide perhaps turning in the South was significant enough; far worse perhaps that it seemed tangled up with promises not kept.

 

Brienne says, steadily enough, "It would seem so." 

 

"To the South?" she asks, reluctantly, her voice catching on that last word for some reason she can't quite fathom. Of course to the South, and its gaping maw and its mad regents.

 

"As I understand it, my lady." Brienne holds her regard; and somewhere beyond the way she still carries herself tall, Sansa understands she's weary right down to the bone; held upright by sheer force of bloody will. She resists the urge to look away from it; knows the cost of inviting pity better than most. 

 

She nods, then; glances up at the sky and the yellowish clouds. It feels colder than it should, beneath her cloak.  "Very well. I'll... need to send something to Lord Tyrion, I suppose.  I'm sorry to--" She stumbles for a moment, quite unlike herself, over the words. It's entirely expected in some ways, and yet it cuts deeper than she is comfortable with. "It's bitter today, to be out here. "

 

Brienne looks at her, a little too wary; paler even than usual. It's cold enough Sansa can see her breath pattern the air; too shallow and too quick. "I don't particularly feel it, my lady."

 

Sansa tries to smile, but it feels thin; worn through. "Of course. I won't keep you from your practice any longer, but-- Brienne?" She knows they're both standing there, poised to get as far away from this conversation as possible because it's prickly and uncomfortable and it _hurts_ \-- but she also knows swearing fealty comes with a price on both sides, and that a pack survives by taking care of its own. "When we spoke of this before--" _And what a conversation that had been_ \-- "I had hope we were just being cautious.  All of us, Tyrion included.  We hoped."

 

"There was always a chance, my lady," she says; head held high, still dignified; and Sansa wonders for a moment _a chance of what? That he would ever stay, or that he would break like he did every time before?_

 

She remembers her mother's hand, in all this; all the stories she has pieced together about the complicated games set in motion with Brienne being tasked, and with Jaime Lannister always somewhere in the heart of them.  It had cost, to get them all this far; they had all paid time and again, and they were still paying now.

 

She says, her voice gentler than she intended, "Take care out here in the cold, Brienne. Go find a fireside soon; we'll talk more at dinner."

 

* * *

 

She pens a brief message to Tyrion; barely avoiding _I told you so_ ; barely sure it's worth wasting a raven on at this point.  If events in the South have soured so quickly, she's starting to wonder if Tyrion has more pressing matters than the eventual arrival of one more of his siblings to join the chaos and the fray down there, no matter the intent behind it -- and last she looked, Cersei had made it quite clear she wished them both dead. But they had agreed, when he first sounded out whether she would consider letting Jaime stay all those weeks ago -- they had agreed that she would let him know if anything changed, and she tries to keep her word for things like this.

 

It's more bitter than she expected, sealing it up and bidding it be sent. 

**Author's Note:**

> It feels really odd writing fic for something I don't have an obsessive level of background knowledge for (I mean, I've watched the whole series over the years but I've also forgotten a lot), so apologies for anything fudged in the process :-)


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